


plastic hearts

by Alienu



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Canon Compliant, Demonic Possession, Dreamons, Established Relationship, Forehead Kisses, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Hybrids, Light Angst, M/M, Mom!Puffy headcanon, Moral Ambiguity, Prison, Reminiscing, Supernatural Elements, but also i love demons and dreamons and gods, dreamon headcanon my beloved..., george is a funky mushroom man because he likes mushrooms and shit, no i am not a dream apologist, so... no george lore?, that mf deserves to be in the prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:01:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29729409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alienu/pseuds/Alienu
Summary: “You took a while to come,” Dream says.George swallows, settles onto the hard obsidian floor a short distance away from Dream, flicks a stray mushroom out of his hair and glances apprehensively at the ticking clock hanging just to his left.“I’m sorry.” He mutters, and doesn’t know why he is.Dream hums, leaning his head against the chest beside him. “You’re a little too late,” he says simply, factually. “He’s all but given up, now.”Or, George chats with the Dream, and the parasite that's been lurking inside his body, and thinks back to simpler times.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 48
Kudos: 449
Collections: Archivist Prompt Challenges, Archivists Font Challenge





	plastic hearts

**Author's Note:**

> Fellow Dreamon headcanon enjoyers. Fellow George lore enjoyers. Welcome. Ali Alienu is back at it again with her DSMP!dnf lore that we never got in canon. Thank me later.
> 
> Looped Songs:
> 
> [full stop - Jeremy Zucker](https://open.spotify.com/track/0bWcT3zU9v9RBAC5gUN7DP?si=cjC-uKrQRGOyTt4WxCrsyg)
> 
> [we're fucked, it's fine - Jeremy Zucker](https://open.spotify.com/track/5JDtA0J56rwLQz5g9lWoCM?si=3Nc7_gxlRHSHv_eJsmGktA)
> 
> [Closer - Chainsmokers](https://open.spotify.com/track/7crMiinWx373rNBZBaVske?si=S_jogGJ_SPuNITwqbSFeUA)
> 
> Written for a fun font challenge I had with my friends, and inspired by that one BBH prison visit stream!

The lava sizzles and pops behind them, slowly falling, and George watches how Sam — or the Warden, more accurately — stares at them with blank eyes. He takes a breath. It’s cold in the prison; cold despite the lava that surrounds them, cold despite the heated tension that crackles through the air. 

_Good luck getting him to speak._

What was that supposed to mean, anyway? George swallows, uneasiness bubbling in his gut as he recalls the cryptic message that The Warden had given him just moments before the platform had begun to move and he was being carried precariously over buckets and buckets of hot magma.

George’s fingers dig harder into his arm. The pain is sharp, and he welcomes it. It grounds him.

He watches as the lava covers the entrance to the cell, oozing down like slime, and then the netherite barriers fall, and he is — for the first time in months — alone. With Dream.

Dream curls up in the corner of his cell, as if to hide. As if he’s scared. Yet he gives no reaction when George steps carefully past the netherite, feet scuffing on the wet, purple substance clinging to the obsidian like vines. Crying obsidian, he thinks, finds it odd that Sam had added such a thing to Dream’s cell. It gives it a little more color, he supposes.

He steps closer, and closer, saying nothing. Dream doesn’t make any moves, green eyes darting towards the lava behind George, as if contemplating. Something cold bubbles in his gut — trepidation — and only increases the longer the silence between them stretches.

Sapnap had refused to tell him the details of his visit to the cell when George asked, only opted to steer the conversation in a different direction. He hadn’t pressed then. 

He wishes now that he had.

“Hi,” George starts with, hesitant, the words scraping up his throat like they’re lined with thorns. Dream’s fingers tap on his knees. He glances towards the lava again, then meets George’s eyes.

“Hello,” Dream says, and it sounds like anything _but_ Dream. It makes the hairs on George’s skin prickle up in alarm, makes his breath catch in his throat and his chest squeeze. It sounds like multiple people are talking but at the same time only one, and the tone feels so unnaturally _carefree,_ like he doesn’t care that he’s stuck here in this prison with nothing but a few stale potatoes and his own torturous thoughts for company.

Dream — or the monster that lurks in his body — seems to be entertained at his alarm. A smile pulls at his lips, amused and condescending.

“You took a while to come,” Dream says again, and George is half tempted to turn around. He could call for Sam, who’d answer in mere seconds, have the platform carry him back across the bubbling lava, leave Dream and the cell behind and never come back. He could retreat back to the forest, help Sapnap and Karl with Kinoko, avoid the DreamSMP in its entirety and avoid _Dream_ and avoid the distant memories that have begun to resurface in his mind.

But he doesn’t. George swallows, settles onto the hard obsidian floor a short distance away from Dream, flicks a stray mushroom out of his hair and glances apprehensively at the ticking clock hanging just to his left. It ticks, slow and steady. Rhythmic.

“I’m sorry.” He mutters, and doesn’t know why he is.

Dream hums, leaning his head against the chest beside him. “You’re a little too late,” he says simply, factually. “He’s all but given up, now.”

“What do you mean by that?” George asks, eyes flitting briefly to the red mushroom that lies stark against the dark flooring, red with white spots. It brings a little color to the dull, dark cell. 

“It means that he’s given up,” Dream shrugs. “What else is there to say? No one came for him. No one cared for him. Not even Sapnap. Not even _you._ Not even before we ended up here,” he gestures around the cell, pauses, and then a wry smile drags his lips up, eyes scarily blank. “Wouldn’t you have given up, too? If not even your closest friends-” George flinches, “-noticed that you were crumbling away, piece by piece, slowly becoming less of a _human_ and more of a vessel? A host?” Dream laughs, and it’s mocking. “This has been going on for months now, darling. It’s too late. He’s all but mine.”

George’s nails dig harder into his arms. The pain is needle-like. “Dream isn’t a human,” He argues with a shake of his head, something akin to embarrassment — guilt — churning in his gut. Goosebumps rise on his skin, and George wonders how something like this had ever slipped by him. What kind of person is he, to have not noticed the change in his own friend -- someone who he maybe could’ve considered a lover, once. What kind of person is he for that? A bad one, probably. He doesn’t know what they are anymore, doesn’t know what to make of his memories of nights that smell like warm vanilla and cool grass and taste like chocolate strawberries. They could’ve been something; they _were_ something. Now? He doesn’t think they’ll ever get that back. He thinks that it all ended, it crashed and it burned along with the community house. “Dream is more than that.”

The smile it tosses him is chilling. “That’s precisely why he’s perfect for me. Wouldn’t you agree?”

And it's right. George _knows._ Because Dream has power. Dream made this world, took his own life force and melded it, shaped it, formed it into the world they inhabit now. He had watched it happen. Dream’s powers have never been a prominent thing. They’re subtle — barely even there, really. A little bit of luck here and there, strength that isn’t quite proportional to his body, regeneration that’s a tad faster than a normal human’s should be. It’s why next to no one knows of it. Not even Tommy, not even Tubbo, not even _Ranboo._ Dream keeps that particular part of his being locked tightly away.

_A young god,_ Puffy had explained to George once, on a rare day where they had crossed paths.

_Not quite a god,_ she had said, _even though the name suggests otherwise. He’s_ _something a little less than that, but at the same time something a little more than a human. Funny, isn’t it? No one here is really fully ‘human’, George. Aside from Tommy._ And when George had raised his eyebrows at her, she’d laughed, patted him on the top of his head as if he were a child despite him being taller than her. _Even Tommy’s mortality is a bit questionable. I raised Dream. I think I’ve gotten pretty good at weeding out the non-humans._

_You’re not human either,_ George had pointed out, eyes locked on to the brown horns curling nicely around the sides of her head. Puffy laughed again.

_No,_ she agreed, smiling, _I’m not. That’s obvious, though. Others here aren’t quite as open about it._

He pulls himself back into the present, discards that memory towards the back of his mind. Dream watches him silently.

“Will you let me talk to him?” He asks quietly. Dream shrugs, doesn’t say anything for a moment.

“I don’t know if he wants to talk to you.” It says. George exhales, runs his fingers along his arm like it’ll soothe the torrent of emotions inside him. It doesn’t, but it is a nice distraction. “Why would he? You’ve done nothing for him. It’s rather pitiful, watching him rot away in the confines of his own consciousness. He gets weaker with every day that passes.”

George swallows back the bile rising in his throat, feeling sick. “Let me talk to him.” He repeats, “Please. Just for a little.” He hesitates, then adds on a little scornfully, “You have nothing to do here anyway.”

It scoffs, but leans against the back of the cell and closes its eyes. George waits, the silence suffocating, picks another baby mushroom out of his hair and tosses it towards the other one. He watches the crying obsidian drip, listens to the clock tick and glances down to his communicator; the small tablet that stays strapped to his right wrist. Nothing interesting is going on, just people idly chatting as they go about their days. Distantly, George wonders what happened to Dream’s. Sam must’ve put it somewhere, right? Or maybe he threw it into lava.

He taps the screen idly, thinks about his forest and misses Kinoko. It’s the closest thing he has to a home, these days.

“Hi.” Dream’s voice — not the parasite’s voice, _Dream’s_ voice, quiet and meek, rough like it hasn’t been used in days, startles him out of his thoughts. “George.”

He looks up. Drinks in his appearance, the change in his expression and how his green eyes suddenly look tired, suddenly hold the familiar glimmer that he could recognize from miles away. 

“Dream,” he breathes, an odd sort of happiness filling his chest, _“Dream.”_

Dream smiles at him. It’s a tired, almost regretful smile, but it’s a smile nonetheless and George has to swallow back a sob of pure and utter relief before he’s moving forward and crashing into a familiar chest and nuzzling into a familiar neck and feeling familiar arms wrapping around him.

“Hey,” Dream rasps, smelling like the prison and summer and _home,_ “hey, George. I missed you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asks instead, feeling like he wants to cry. “Why didn’t you tell Sapnap? We could’ve helped. We _would’ve_ helped.”

His response is a shrug, and Dream adjusts them so that they’re settled more comfortably against each other, for the first time in… weeks? Months? George doesn’t know, and he doesn’t think Dream does either, especially not with the evil that’s been slinking around their world eating him up from the inside out.

“Didn’t want to at first,” Dream mumbles, sounding so, so exhausted that it makes his heart squeeze painfully. “Then when I realized, I couldn’t. It’s sneaky, George. I made a deal with it, and now I’m here.”

George closes his eyes, tries to lose himself in the sea of Dream that he’s managed to surround himself in. The lava bubbles behind them. A reminder.

“Why?” He mumbles lowly, “Why would you…?”

“Why else?” Dream laughs humorlessly, hands rubbing wide, slow circles on his back. “Power. Thought it’d help me fix everything. Make everything better.”

“It didn’t.”

The wry smile in his voice is audible. “It didn’t.” He affirms softly.

George sighs, allowing a small silence to stretch between them before he asks. “How long?”

Dream’s cheek presses into his forehead. He smells like redstone. “L’manburg.”

“That long?” He breathes, eyes widening, pulls back to stare at Dream. Anger spikes in him, piling hot and heavy in his lungs. “Dream, it’s been that long, and you never said anything?”

He glances away, has the sense to look a little guilty. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

George scowls. “And now look where we are!” He exclaims, throat constricting, “You’re in prison because of the shit that _thing-_ “ Dream winces, “-did to Tommy! Because of what it did to everyone! We all thought it was you,” and his voice cracks against his will, tears beading at his eyes only to be furiously blinked away, “I thought you hated us.”

“To be fair,” Dream murmurs quietly, taking George’s hands into his and rubbing circles into the back of them as if it’ll calm his anger. “Some of it _was_ me. We fluctuated back then. Fought each other for control.”

“But you never sounded like _that,_ ” he mumbles, recalling the _thing’s_ chilling, echoey voice, “you still sounded like you, back then.”

Dream smiles again. “Parasites do that, you know.” He says quietly. “Take control of you, treat you like a puppet. Back then it was small, then it grew, and it grew, and now...” he pauses, sounding uncertain, “now, it’s mostly taken over.” He presses a thumb into George’s cheek, rubs away the salty tears that are prickling at the corners of his eyes and traces his fingers along the scattering of light freckles that are there.

And just like that, George is visibly deflating, anger dissipating and giving away into hopelessness; acceptance. He leans into Dream’s warm touch, feeling so painfully useless.

“Is it going to take you forever?” He asks eventually, the words raw and rough. “How long?”

Dream shakes his head. “Nah,” he assures gently, “Maybe for a normal human it would, but it can’t. Not with me. It’s okay. I’ll always be here.” He smiles again. “It’s okay.”

_It’s not,_ George thinks, but pretends like it is, turning his head and pressing his nose into Dream’s gloved palm. The affectionate laugh he receives is one that he had thought he’d forgotten the sound of.

It’s been so _long._

He doesn’t know how they had ever gotten to this point. He hadn’t ever thought that things would turn out like this, that he’d be watching Dream crumble away in more ways than one. George wants, desperately, to go back in time when things were so much simpler. When the only thing he worried about was building and keeping himself and his friends safe from the hostile mobs. Everything was so much easier back then. Everything was so much more _fun,_ back then.

He misses those times. He misses the community house — the original one. He misses sneaking out to watch the stars with Dream, misses taking care of Beckerson and Mars, misses tracing constellations on the freckles splattered across Dream’s face, misses playfully fighting with Sapnap and misses strolling along clean wooden paths void of any red vines.

He misses having a place to call home.

“I missed you,” he whispers, the words bouncing off the obsidian walls.

Dream smiles, eyes fond. He cups George’s cheek in his hand, palm warm and his smile warmer.

“I missed you too,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” George asks, even though he knows.

Dream presses a kiss to his forehead.

It’s warm, and it’s nice.

It’s soft, and it tingles.

“Everything.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos are much appreciated!! I hope you enjoyed <3
> 
> [I have a Twitter!! Come say hi :D](https://twitter.com/Alienu_)


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